


Haunted

by mogwai_do



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Ghosts, M/M, Post-Comes A Horseman/Revelations 6:8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24231790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: After Bordeaux Methos has some unfinished business.
Relationships: Kronos (Highlander)/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Haunted

He hadn't slept in days, had barely eaten, had drunk enough coffee to keep Starbucks afloat for years. Part of him was afraid of the dreams - not nightmares, but memories, less of the last few days, more of the millennia previous. The sort of dreams where it was the waking, not the dream itself, that brought the horror. Partly too, he was afraid of the accusations his subconscious would level at him in the guise of his dead brothers. But more than either of those, he was afraid his dreams would hit upon the solution he had been unable to find - the one where his brothers survived, where he retained the Highlander's good opinion and everybody lived. The one that didn't end with him stumbling through the darkening forest, so far beyond exhaustion that sleep itself was a dream. Trying to pre-empt the Furies and get a head start on the ghosts of his failures and the twin hounds of guilt and regret. He'd made it this far and his goal was almost in sight – almost ready to turn and face his demons in a place of his own choosing.

The sudden wash of bright moonlight was almost blinding after the dense foliage of the forest and Methos stumbled to a halt even as his exhausted mind was dragged back to awareness of more than just the ache in his legs and head and heart, coming back to himself alone outside Silas’ home.

The cabin looked as it had when he had last been there; empty, but that was no surprise, he had emptied it after all. Yet it hadn't fallen into disrepair, hadn't that air of abandonment it should have had. It was like it was just waiting for its owner to return.

Only a decade earlier, out of curiosity, Methos had looked for the Watchers' first recorded entry on him. It had been not long after Pompeii, AD97 by the modern calendar, in a small hill town in what was now Turkey. Up until then, although there had been occasional references to 'Methos', they had all been third hand at best and nothing the Watchers took as anything more than a myth. Then one Watcher had observed her Immortal in a Challenge. Her Immortal had lost, not surprising since his unidentified opponent had been nearly twice his size and armed with a huge axe, not so unusual in those days given the poor quality of the swords. It turned out though that the Immortal wasn't interested in taking his head, at least not yet. The giant had been looking for his brother Methos. The other Immortal had protested Methos' mythological status and been ignored. Eventually the Immortal had lost his head, leaving the giant none the wiser.

No longer having their own Immortal, the Watcher had followed the giant after the challenge and found him talking to his horses, one a huge, dark horse, the other a slender dappled grey. The giant had been telling them that Methos was not there and asking them which direction they should search next. The rest of the Chronicle had been lost to water damage and the Watcher had lost the giant Immortal after he had left the town, but the entry had haunted Methos for days after reading it. The Watchers had thought Silas stupid and not bothered to track him down with their numbers stretched thin, reasoning he would not last long, not realising how long he had already survived. It had frightened Methos just how close his brother had come to finding him. 

Kronos would always be the greatest threat to him, not for what he might do should he find his brother, but for what he meant to Methos. Silas though... to have arrived in a town Methos had left only a month before. Silas was a simple soul, not a stupid one, and Methos had sometimes wondered if his brother had never actually reasoned Methos' whereabouts, but simply known it. His fear had been so great he had actually sought his brother out for the first time in over 1,500 years. He could still remember the simple joy on his brother's face when he had ridden onto Silas' remote farm in what was now Finland, and it had borne no small resemblance to this place. It had been truly good to see his gentle brother and not difficult to steer their conversation away from the days of the Horsemen to the creatures Silas so loved. 

Silas had been raising a grey foal, one in a long line and destined to be a beautiful, strong horse. He’d encouraged Methos to feed it, pet it, to get it used to him from birth; the intention behind it was clear, but he’d never raised the prospect of anything more than just riding. Silas had been such a simple soul, still believing in the family they had created. Of all the betrayals in his five millennia that one still hurt the most. There had been no real harm in the blonde giant and it had been easy enough back then to convince him to stay put. Silas simply hadn't had the nomadic tendencies of his three brothers. He, of all of them, had found contentment easy to obtain. 

Methos had left the small farm more at ease with his past than he had ever been. Kronos had little reason to hunt down Silas without the other Horsemen and while Methos had no doubt of his brother's ability to find their giant brother if he chose, it would not have been a quick task. 

Caspian had been easiest to track, but best left alone with whatever occupied his time; he had been no danger to Methos except as he might tell Kronos. Methos hadn’t liked him enough to pay a visit, and it would only have been asking for trouble anyway.

Kronos though... He had been a hard one to keep track of and Methos hadn't wanted to look too hard for fear he might be found in turn. The scarred Horseman had known about the Watchers' existence almost as long as his elder brother. He lost them or killed them almost as soon as they found him. The few reliable sightings were Challenges he had won, but Methos hadn't really needed those; an eye to the state of the world and a too-intimate understanding of his brother's twisted psyche had made it all too easy to guess where he might be. Methos avoided wars for a whole host of reasons: the chance of accidental beheading; the killing that brought too many old instincts to the surface; the waste of it all... and the increased chance of running into his brother.

A bitterly cold October wind scythed through the clearing, bringing him back to the present, but he resisted the instinctive urge to wrap his arms around himself for warmth. Instead Methos opened his arms to the chill, welcoming the numbing pain of the cold as it sliced through his body like a thousand ethereal needles. Methos stood until he could no longer feel and then let his legs slowly fold beneath him, head bowed as he forced his frozen body to take one deep, shuddering breath after another and he finally released the desperate iron grip on his buried grief.

The first sob heaved from his chest like someone had reached in and wrenched it out; his lungs burned and his ribs ached, fighting against grief’s constriction to expand and draw breath. Methos’ hands flew up to clasp over his mouth trying to stifle the second sob, muffling it even as his chest heaved with the effort.

God it hurt, it hurt so much. His heart hurt with the unreasoning hurt of an animal in pain - not knowing why it hurt or how to make it stop. It didn't care that there were reasons; it didn't care that those reasons were good ones. What were the lives of a few thousand mortals next to this pain? Methos' tears blinded him; his sobs deafened him; his hands dropped from his face, long fingers digging into the winter-hard dirt beneath him. It shouldn't hurt so much, but it did. 

He wasn’t sure how long it took for that first overwhelming tide of grief to recede, but even as it did his mind drew comparisons and analysed. Eventually he supposed its cold logic would give him some comfort, but not yet, not for years he suspected. The Horsemen had been like a gangrenous limb; a part of his dead past that had threatened his own life. For his own good, for everyone's, it had to go. So why did it feel like he was the one who had been cut off, his presence excised from the whole that had been his family for a thousand years. He was left behind, cast adrift, lost, and it was all his own doing. 

He could feel Kronos and Silas still, somewhere inside him; if he let them, he knew those Quickening echoes would comfort him. He forced himself upright until he sat back on his heels, eyes tilted up to look at the sky, throat bared. He didn't want that comfort, didn't deserve it - not for his crimes. A small whisper in his mind told him to take it because it was all he would ever get. His true punishment, the alienation of those few friends he had found. 

"Duncan," the name escaped on a broken breath and fresh claws tore into his already bleeding heart. How could he mourn the loss of his brothers in one breath and then the loss of their killer the next? Even for him that was fucked up. But the twin sorrows were inextricably tied, like lead weights, to his heart. Fresh tears spilled over, hot on his cheeks even as the late afternoon temperature plummeted around him. Methos curled up on the hard ground, buried his face in his hands, and let his grief take him. 

He wasn't sure when his tears finally lulled him to sleep, in fact he couldn't even be sure they had, but for the lack of chill in the night air and the strangely still quality of the night; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been sleep-deprived enough to hallucinate. Methos looked around the empty farmyard; he hated dreams like this, so real you could taste them and at the same time... 

A faint sound spun him around toward the cabin. The warmth of firelight shone through the windows, welcoming. Methos took a step back, then another, not taking his eyes from the flickering light. One more step and he stopped dead, knowing that just behind him was a face he really didn't want to see. Hot breath wafted across the back of his neck and his reaction was as instantaneous as it was instinctive. 

"Fuck off, Caspian!" he snarled as he spun to face his brother. There was no-one there, but a familiar evil chuckle floated on the non-existent breeze. Methos dropped to his knees and bowed forward until his forehead almost touched the winter sere grass. He couldn't play this game, not right now, when the wounds were still so raw.

"Don't you want to play anymore, Methos?" the thickly accented voice choked him with its easy familiarity, the words too similar to his own thoughts for comfort, but then Caspian had never really been the comfortable sort. 

Methos took a deep shuddering breath and then forced himself to take another. He could taste his brothers in the air, cloves and the sharp tang of sour fruit; straw and sea salt; and finally there - coffee and blood. He wanted them to go; he didn't want to be left alone. 

Another chuckle, "I think he is broken." 

An amused snort greeted that malicious pronouncement and Methos could almost hear Silas' frown, "Methos does not break." Part defence, part question in that familiar rumbling voice and Methos felt tears sting his eyes. 

The shake of a head he couldn't see and then a pair of boots entered his limited field of vision. Black denim and a far too familiar hand. Strong fingers gripped tight in his hair, forcing his head up to meet a brilliant, blue gaze. 

"No, he doesn't, Silas," the piercing eyes narrowed and Methos could feel them reach so far inside him, touching him with an intimacy he had never allowed anyone after Kronos. It was both terrifying and comforting that it was still possible. 

"So, what is this then, Methos?" he asked in that deceptively soft voice. Methos shook his head dumbly, unable to form words past the constriction in his throat, not sure what to say even if he could. "You killed us so you could live, if this is all you're going to make of that gift..."

A heavily booted toe nudged him in the ribs, not gently. "I think he has gone soft," the accent was even thicker with the contempt with which Caspian laced the simple words. But underneath the contempt was... concern? Strange to think that Caspian cared and was trying to help him the only way he believed in - goading a response from his elder brother.

Kronos was still watching him closely, but Methos let his eyes slide shut, let the breath spill from his body. The grief that had so knotted his muscles loosened its grip. A deep breath, another, those familiar scents filling his lungs, displacing the lifeless air with something as close to home as he had ever had. 

"Not soft, just… flexible," his voice seemed odd even to himself, tired maybe, exhausted. 

"Methos!" Silas' exclamation was half-shocked, half-greeting, yet beneath it an unshakeable trust that Methos would not hurt him even now. Methos turned his head against Kronos' grip and smiled at his beloved brother. He wasn't sure where the smile came from, but the broad smile on his simple friend's face made it worth the effort. 

Methos could feel Kronos' eyes boring into him before the strong fingers tightened their grip and forced his head back around. Methos closed his eyes against that piercing regard and the fingers tightened until the pain was bright and sharp. He didn't open his eyes – physical pain was the least of what they had done to each other over the years. He felt Kronos shift closer until he could feel the warmth of his brother's breath. 

"Don't," the word escaped before he could think to call it back, desperation and fear in a tone that he _knew_ his brother could read. Silence, total silence, and stillness. If not for the fingers in his hair he could believe he was alone. And that was worse...

Slowly Methos opened his eyes and forced himself not to flinch from Kronos' cold stare. He couldn't do this anymore - hadn't that been the whole point...

A snarl and then Kronos was pushing him away to send him sprawling on cold, damp concrete. Silas was gone. Caspian was gone. The cabin in the woods was gone. Methos looked around - the base in Bordeaux, the catwalk overlooking the sub pens. He felt hollow inside, as empty as the base around him... not quite.

Kronos sat on the abandoned machinery, legs crossed, his sword resting across his lap, looking like some kind of evil, leather-clad leprechaun. Kronos merely raised an eyebrow at the bizarre thought. Methos struggled to sit up, finding himself facing his brother.

Kronos gestured around them, "Just the two of us, brother, all alone - will you talk now?"

Methos half-glared, but he couldn't really find the energy to make it work, "Just me, Kronos, you're dead remember."

Kronos grinned, "Did you really think that would stop me?" 

Methos' mouth twisted in a wry smile, "I had hoped." 

Kronos snorted and stood, "Liar." 

Methos knew his eyes had shuttered by their reflection in Kronos' expression, and he turned his head away. Kronos' sigh was long-suffering as he crouched down next to his brother's lean body.

"We'll try this then. You _had_ hoped this would never happen. You _had_ hoped your brothers would be there for you when you needed them again. You had _hoped_ MacLeod would never find out. You had hoped Cassandra had got over it." He paused, "You _had_ hoped you didn't still want it as much." 

Methos rolled away and got to his feet in an abrupt movement. "I don't!" his voice was more panicked than he would have liked. 

Kronos smiled, "Yes. You do." With each word he moved closer until he was so close Methos could feel the heat of him. Kronos' head tilted curiously, blue eyes sharpening, "You've never been one to lie to yourself, brother, why now?" so soft that voice, so very dangerous.

Methos didn't answer.

"Fucking pathetic," Kronos sneered. "You want him that badly you'll forget who you are, _what_ you are?" 

Methos rounded on his brother with a snarl of his own, "Why not, _brother_? I did it for you. At least this time I won't regret what I become." 

Kronos' laugh was chilling, "Ah, Methos - you already do - why else would you be here?"

Methos turned to his brother in a sort of horrified shock, he had no answer to that. Why hadn't he seen... 

Slowly he sank to his knees on the hard floor, "Why am I here?" he asked almost plaintively, looking up at the spectre of his brother with something not so very far from desperation. How had he become so lost and why hadn't he noticed? Kronos' blue-eyed gaze had nothing of pity in it; Methos wasn't sure his brother even knew how, not that it mattered, he didn't want pity, he wanted to _know_. 

"I missed Silas," he answered himself slowly as though those words would reveal the reasons behind his actions if he looked at them hard enough. "I owed it to him to make sure his animals would be alright..." He stopped, it was true, but... something about it felt wrong, too contrived perhaps. 

"I missed him," he repeated softly and looked to Kronos, "He was my friend, my brother, I loved him... and I killed him." 

Kronos smiled and dropped into a crouch so he was eye level with Methos, "Does it need to be any more complicated than that, brother? Why does there have to be a reason? Why should it be explained?" Kronos tilted his head, "You never needed to justify yourself before, why now? Why do you want to justify yourself to him when you know he won't understand?" 

And it was true, he was trying to justify his actions to a man who not only wasn't there, but probably wouldn't want to even see Methos ever again. Kronos had never needed any justification for Methos' actions - he had trusted his brother enough that Methos' word had been enough. He missed the simplicity of that friendship and it was too late to do anything about it now, but he _missed_ it.

"Why?" he demanded again and Methos proffered the only answer he could.

"Because I love him," he whispered. 

Kronos snorted, " _That_ much is pitifully obvious, brother," he responded loftily. "If you had killed us for the sake of some nebulous greater good, I'd be annoyed." 

Despite himself Methos laughed, Kronos was sometimes so perfect it almost made him regret leaving his brothers. It was so easy to fall back into the patterns of their relationship. 

"Well that would be a change, wouldn't it," he replied easily and was suddenly startled to find the blade of his brother's sword pressed tightly against his neck, not _quite_ breaking the skin. His laughter died abruptly and Kronos leaned close, blue eyes as cold as Methos had ever seen them. And then he was being kissed, fiercely, hungrily, and it was everything he remembered of his lover and he was responding without thought, mouth opening wider, heedless of the blade pressed so close. His fingers reached up, twisting in the leather, refusing to let go. And then the blade was gone, clattering to the ground as Kronos' hands came up to hold Methos' head as the kiss extended beyond breath. 

Methos tore himself away, half falling to the ground, gulping air and blinking away the darkness that crowded his vision. And then Kronos was there again, dropping down to straddle Methos' thighs, effectively pinning him. Methos blinked at the sudden weight, but rather than try to get up he simply rolled fully onto his back, looking up at this brother. 

"I miss you," he offered softly, one hand reaching up of its own volition to gently cup the stubbled cheek. 

The blue eyes closed for a moment, Kronos' face eerily blank and then that grin. "I should think so too," he replied, his tone betraying nothing of how deeply those words had affected him. 

But Methos didn't need to see, he knew, he'd always known. And then Kronos was leaning in, claiming his brother as no-one else had ever succeeded in doing. Kronos tasted of metallic heat, the blood and lightning of a Quickening and cold, empty nothing. 

Kronos owned him, Methos had offered him the deeds himself, everything he had in return for everything Kronos was, sometimes he still couldn't believe he had succeeded so cheaply. At least Kronos had understood what was offered, had accepted with all due respect to its value. No-one else ever had. The Highlander was all against slavery, the value of life, but he didn't truly understand what that meant. If Methos wanted him to understand he would have to teach him himself and that was not a task he relished the idea of. 

Methos broke away, but couldn’t stop his hands roaming, savouring his brother's skin beneath his touch. He asked the question that plagued him most, "Why? Why did you do it?" 

No elaboration was needed for either of them and for the first time Methos saw something in Kronos' eyes that might have been shame, the first betrayal had not been his, only the last most final one. Kronos' rough, scarred hands came up to cup Methos' face gently, thumbs tenderly stroking over the high cheekbones. "I was never as good as you at letting go, brother." 

Methos closed his eyes in painful acknowledgement of a truth they'd both known intimately for millennia. His hands came up to cover Kronos' and drew them away from his face before opening his eyes. "I'm glad," he murmured before pressing a kiss into the palm of each captured hand. "I would hate to lose you completely." 

Kronos' hands tightened momentarily in his grasp before relaxing, the smile that came to the scarred face was amused relief to those that could read it. "I'll remind you of that next time."

Methos' smile only widened, "You do that, brother. You do that." 

Methos was strangely unperturbed when his brother wisped away to nothing in his grasp, leaving only the indelible impression of a beautifully mad grin. Methos closed his eyes to better preserve the memory and when he opened them again, it was Silas' cabin he saw.

Slowly, with exhaustion-laden limbs he picked himself up off the ground, looking around as he mentally plotted his actions to close up the cabin. He could feel a curious lightness behind his heart that told him his brothers still remained, sharing the burden of grief, and he found himself smiling. He was glad and he needed no justification for following the dictates of his heart. He'd lost sight of that for a while, but Kronos had always been good for a reminder.

As he released the catches on the cages housing Silas' pets, his mind was already planning ahead to his inevitable return to Paris. The simple actions helping to settle his mind to its new perspective. He honestly didn't know if his relationship with the Highlander could survive the Horsemen, but he wanted to find out. Things would certainly be difficult for a while, but one of the advantages of Immortality was the chance to get over life's disappointments and correct your mistakes, which was what Duncan would have to do. Methos no longer felt the need to justify the choices he had made millennia before the Highlander's birth. Justifications were just that, irrelevant really in the grand scheme of things. He'd loved Kronos, he loved MacLeod, whatever happened happened. Their friendship would survive or not, but he was through trying to justify his past. MacLeod would either accept it or not, but Methos was through apologising for it.

The small stable behind the cabin still housed an elderly grey mare with feed and water for a few days yet. The stable was sturdily built, retaining that animal warmth despite the winter wind outside, and the nearest town well over an hour’s dark hike away. Absently, Methos refreshed the feed and refilled the water, gently stroking the velvet nose and breathing in the familiar scents. She was fit enough to survive if released, but she’d never known anything but his brother’s care, raised for a day Silas would never now see. Methos gave the mare a final gentle pat and crossed to the hay bales stacked in the corner; pulling his coat closer around him, he sank to the hay-cushioned floor. He could decide in the morning. Holding tight to the warm embers of Quickenings still fading, Methos finally slept.


End file.
